Tom Lear, Tom Lear, Tom Lear. The name played in his mind like a pretty song. Everything the guy did seemed so perfect. He even dressed well. He had it all over someone like Tony Winters. He had Tony’s connections (and he got them by merit, not by birth), he had Tony’s quick wit, but he also had the common touch. There was always something snobbish in Tony’s manner — he let you know he thought he was smarter than you. Not Tom. He had a frank, almost childlike innocence when he’d disagree over a book or movie with people. An earnest desire to hear the other point of view. Tony always seemed to want to win the fight, make the other person seem stupid. And Tom had a broader experience and interest in the world. He liked sports. He played poker. He pointed out women with great tits, just like a regular guy.
Tom had asked to read his novel. That was something Tony Winters would never do. Tony couldn’t care less about someone else’s work. Tom was really eager to see Fred’s stuff. He asked about it every time they got together. Two nights ago Fred had given him the first third of the book, a hundred and fifty pages. And because Tom was such a great person, Fred felt no anxiety over Tom’s possible reaction. He was confident that if Tom didn’t like the pages, he would say so, make helpful comments, and continue to be as friendly as ever. That more than anything else was what made Tom different from the rest of the New York cultural scene. He was a real friend.
Fred had to deliver the first one hundred pages of The Locker Room soon. Both Bart and Bob Holder had been asking for them. Therefore, having someone like Tom as a first reader was lucky. Fred happily spent the morning reading over his work. Just the substantial size of his manuscript pleased him. Soon he would have a published book, a small enough achievement in the world in which he now moved, but a climax for him of six years of struggle.
He felt a slight disappointment when Tom Lear called to confirm their date and made no mention of his pages. Probably hasn’t read them yet, Fred told himself, and made up excuses for Tom, not wanting to feel critical of him. He spoke to Marion at work in the late afternoon. He had given little thought to their argument so he surprised himself by saying, after hearing a sullen, clipped hello from her, “Hi. Listen, Tom called. We’ll be at Elaine’s at nine-thirty. Want to meet us there?”
Long pause. As though she were looking for a trick. There wasn’t one, however. Fred had realized there was no reason for her not to come. Her presence wouldn’t change anything for him. In fact, he now wanted her to come. To see how seriously everybody took him. Maybe she would become more respectful. “That’s kind of late …” she said. “What is this? You hocked me about coming and—” “I didn’t hock you. Jesus! Nine-thirty’s late—” “You can leave when you’re tired. I’ll put you in a cab.” “Okay,” she said, suddenly. “Great. I’ll see you there.” Fred thought maybe Tom had read the hundred and fifty pages and wanted to wait until he was with him in the flesh to talk about them, but when they met outside the Gulf & Western Building a few minutes before the screening, Tom said, “Fred. I haven’t had a chance to read your stuff. I’m sorry, things have been crazy—”
“That’s okay,” Fred said. “But do you think you could by the weekend? I’ve got—”
“Definitely. I’ll read ’em tonight.” I’ll read ’em tonight. That sentence interfered with the fortunes of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom throughout the screening. Instead of groaning at the cave with insects, Fred heard Tom’s casual voice, imbued with confidence. I’ll read ’em tonight. While around him people squirmed and moaned uncomfortably as a heart was removed with bare hands from someone’s chest, Fred envied Tom’s situation. He hoped one day another writer would sit next to famous author Fred Tatter before the lights came down and be thrilled to hear that Fred would “read ’em tonight.” He watched impassively as the beating heart was held high into a close-up. While the rest of the room turned to each other with disgust on their faces, he found the image peculiarly normal. Somehow a just expression of the state of his life. Beating and bleeding for everyone to see.
When the picture was over he felt constrained, back to discomfort as usual. It was a mistake giving Tom the pages, Fred said to himself. I can’t take it. He thought it would be different with Tom Lear, but as they took a cab to Elaine’s and entered, greeting the crowd, kissing cheeks, pumping hands, glancing about to see who was there, he knew it wasn’t. He needed Tom’s good opinion. Things wouldn’t be the same if Tom hated the manuscript. After all. Tom might have forged the friendship, assuming Fred was a good writer — discovering otherwise could change everything. Isn’t a big part of the reason I like Tom because I think he’s a terrific writer? Fred asked himself.
Fred copied Tom’s drink orders. By the time Marion arrived, he had had two Scotches and soda. Her appearance surprised him. It wasn’t simply that he had forgotten she was coming — he stared at her amazed, as though her very existence startled him. “Hi, Marion,” he said, kissing her on the cheek and sitting down. She remained standing (she looked flushed with excitement at being there. Fred noticed, but the observation meant nothing to him in his gloomy mood) behind a chair, and stared at Tom. Why is she doing that? Fred wondered.
“I’m Tom Lear,” Tom finally said.
“Thanks,” she said, laughing. “I’m Fred’s wife, Marion.”
“You haven’t met!” Fred said, genuinely surprised.
“How many drinks has he had?” Marion asked Tom, and laughed.
Tom smiled at her. “He is out of it tonight. What’s the matter with him?”
“No, really,” Fred said, making it worse. “You haven’t met?”
“Of course we haven’t met, Freddy,” Marion said. She called him Freddy when she was most contemptuous of him. “You know that. I complained about it enough, for Chris-sake.”
“Has he been keeping you from me?” Tom Lear asked with mock outrage. “He knew it would be magic between us. That’s why.”
Marion laughed and winked at Tom. Fred knew she meant to be flirtatious, but that subtle art was beyond Marion— she made it seem dirty somehow. Can’t she tell he’s making fun of her? he asked himself.
He found himself spending much of the evening listening to Marion with disapproval. She talked a lot. Asked briefly about Indiana Jones and then launched into a pompous lecture saying that scary movies damaged kids. Tom pretended to take her seriously. Fred thought, indeed he probably did consider her point well-taken, but Fred also saw the bored look in his eyes. Marion’s not pretty enough to be dull. Fred could hear him think. Tom’s eyes drifted to the door, probably hoping someone interesting would come in. Fred could feel, like a sympathetic itch, the restlessness in Lear’s body, the desire to be free of them.
Marion was oblivious, tipsy from her two glasses of wine, asking (too loudly) who was who at the other table, and puzzled by Fred’s morose air. “What’s with you?” she asked Fred when another (one of many) lulls in the conversation had caused Tom to stare off toward the bar.
“Nothing,” Fred said, afraid she was about to say something intimate and embarrassing.
She smiled, her eyes unfocused. “The food here sucks,” she said. Loud.
Tom’s eyes went to her instantly. The sentence shot through Fred like a current, startling every nerve. “Shhh,” he said, his head whipping one way and the other to check whether Elaine or one of the waiters had overheard. Tom, however, was laughing.